


Analogies

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Smith and Wesson [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dirty Talk, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Impersonation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not hunters, but they're not normal, either. Normal people don't impersonate teachers to catch a ghost, and they definitely don't get turned on because of it.  Sequel to 'On Your Dime.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Analogies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BewareTheIdes15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/gifts).



> Written for the 2010 round at spn_j2_xmas for bewaretheides15, using her prompt: "for a case, Sam ends up posing as a tutor for an SAT class" and teacher!kink with her pairing of Smith/Wesson. Heck, I'd take any excuse to write Smith/Wesson again! ♥
> 
> I love the Smith/Wesson pairing so much, especially when taken as a full SPN alternate universe. It's almost like going back to Season 1 when the characters were new and fresh and, let's face it, pretty unburdened compared to what they're like now ;) Plus, you have a built in suit!kink with Dean. When is that not fun?

"We need a new plan."

Dean won't let Sam's glare wither him; it's nowhere near as intimidating as it used to be.

"Or," Dean points out, "you could learn to pick locks."

Sam doesn't appreciate that suggestion either, his brow working double-time to convey his annoyance. He gives the brick wall a swift kick, wincing and spinning away from Dean.

The bright red paint on the impenetrable back doors of James Cole High School mocks Dean and Sam's incompetence. Damn things just won't give.

A moment later, Sam holds a clunky gold key up under Dean's nose, his eyes sharp. "I thought you stole this key from the janitor."

"Man, he had a whole ring of keys," Dean hisses. "I thought I grabbed the right one. I'm not exactly a world-class pick-pocket!"

"Obviously—"

Dean cuts him off with a hostile gesture. "Don't even say it. The janitor was the back-up plan, remember? You were supposed to swipe a key from the office but you got distracted."

"There were no spare keys there, I told you," Sam mutters, shouldering his tire-iron and starting back toward the street where his car is parked. "And I wasn't distracted. The vice-principal was chatty."

"Well, unless you're gonna whip out some crazy burglary skills, we need a different plan."

It's not like Dean's happy with the idea of starting over either: breaking into a high school to hunt the ghost of some asshole tormenting the students, giving up his vacation time. He could be in Hilton Head this week, making the rounds at all of the premiere golf courses. 

But he can't say no when Sam Wesson's at his door, legs up to here and a mouth made for dirty talk.

Sam says nothing—turns out he can be a moody bitch when he hunts—and Dean follows him to the street, carrying his own iron fire-poker and their duffel filled with bags of rock salt.

"Let's check that hunting site," Dean says. "It might give us another idea."

Sam laughs. "Those Ghostfacers tools don't know anything. We're better off finding a way on our own."

"Says you."

Either Sam doesn't hear him or he's past the point of acknowledging Dean. Whatever.

Dean should have let this hunting business drop right after Sandover. He'd kept his job—thank God, because Dean's _not_ ready to live on a restricted budget—and he'd kept away from Sam for weeks until curiosity got the better of him. He'd picked up the phone, called Sam, and started a whole new messed-up chapter of his life.

"Are you coming?" Sam asks, standing by his car. "Or are you gonna stand there until a cop drives by or something?"

"It depends. Would you bail me out of jail?"

"Fuck, no," Sam says. "Now hurry up and get in the car."

Oh yeah, Dean thinks. Hunting is _awesome_.

@@@

"That's a terrible plan."

"You didn't even think about it," Sam says, sulking on the second bed in their hotel room. "It'll work."

Dean paces in front of the dresser. "Undercover, Sam? Really? You know it's not as easy as it looks on television, right?"

"It's not really going undercover. I mean, the vice-principal offered me the job."

"But you lied about being qualified."

"How qualified do you have to be to read examples from a test-prep book to a bunch of bored high school kids who are only there because their parents forced them? I can do it, seriously."

Dean already knows it's a perfect way to get into the school after hours. He's not cool with the way the opportunity was dangled like a delicious morsel in front of Sam by the buxom vice-principal when they went back to the school.

Sam's still talking. "One or two nights, that's all we're gonna need. We already know who this spirit is going after, and it'll put me right in the middle of it."

"And, what?" Dean asks. "You think that's a _good_ thing?"

"We can't hunt from the outside, Dean," Sam says. "Not if we want to make a difference. Come on..."

There's a low, hidden promise behind Sam's plea; Dean doesn't want to think about it. Sam knows exactly how to distract him away from the details.

"Fine." Dean tilts his hips forward with his hands in his pockets. "But I've gotta be in the school with you just in case."

Sam finally smiles. "Deal."

@@@

Dean has walked by Sam's classroom at least five times, taking long deliberate steps to keep his shoes from squeaking on the linoleum. Senses vigilant for their teenage spirit, just as hormonal and unpredictable as the real thing, he patrols the hallway in long sweeps, always coming back to Sam's door.

Sam isn't just reading examples from an SAT prep book. His ass is perched on the front edge of the wide, laminate desk, putting his crotch square in Dean's view. The students', too, and Dean has a pretty good idea that none of the girls in the front row are paying attention to what Sam's saying. If Dean were back in high school, crammed into those metal abominations the school calls _desks_ , he'd be entertaining some vivid fantasies involving Sam and that teacher's desk.

On top of his posture, Sam has traded in his crappy hunting jeans for a pair of dark denims with a narrow cut all the way down to his ankles, tracing the hard lines of his legs. A white tank covered by an immaculately white button-down tapering to his waist, tucked in behind a caramel leather belt.

Seeing Sam dressed so sharply, even his hair tamed behind his ears with only a few soft strands straying across his forehead, is giving Dean a few more mature fantasies.

Dean gets back to patrolling before Sam can look up and see him. No use having them both distracted.

An hour later, back at the Hampton Inn off the highway—Dean was not staying in some dive motel when there was a perfectly reputable hotel around with free breakfast, no matter how much Sam bitched about _the life_ —Sam lets his frustration out, eyes wild and hands spinning.

"Why didn't he show?"

"Maybe he only comes out during a full moon, like a werewolf."

Sam's face darkens. "Werewolves don't exist."

"Wanna make a bet?" Dean chides, mouth drying up as Sam strips down to his tank, bare shoulders tensed. "Seriously, I doubt he shows every night. This was the first class, you know. Maybe spirits do recon, too."

"You mean, like, he's looking for something specific?"

"Sandover did, remember? Turning slackers into slaves."

Sam's expression pulls in when he's thinking hard, his mouth pinched. Dean won't admit it's an attractive look, intensity palpable from across the room.

Moments like this, Dean can picture Sam hitching a ride with hunting as far as it'll carry him. Sam had dreams—he knew this lifestyle in a way that made Dean think of destiny and predetermination. Dean was never so sure about himself: keeping his job at Sandover, waiting for the kind of sign that had been dropped on Sam Wesson.

If it doesn't hit him soon, Dean's got a strange feeling he'll be left behind when Sam goes on his next hunt.

"Alright, I got it." Sam slaps heavy palms down on his thighs. His position now mirrors what it had been in the classroom: ass on the room's cheap writing desk, legs at a jaunt. Only now, the button-down and belt are gone, and there's sweat down the back of Dean's neck. He wonders how deliberate Sam is being.

"Got what?" Dean covers.

"So, this Steven kid couldn't handle the pressure, right? All that stress from classes, low grades, and then a horrible SAT score on top of that."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, ignoring his own kind of pressure creeping up between his legs from Sam's provocative posture—Dean would swear Sam's thighs are parted wider than they were a second ago. "He OD'd on a bunch of medications from his parents' bathroom. Not a fun way to go, man."

Sam jumps back in. "And the kids who've gotten sick have been the same way. Freaking out about their grades, getting into good schools, almost to the point of having a nervous breakdown."

As Sam talks, his body relaxes a fraction, the desk taking more of his weight. Dean can't move; Sam's stare locks him in place and the conversation turns into something deeper. Sam gives nothing away.

"So, maybe we have to expose a weakness," Sam says, licking his bottom lip, leaving a wet stain there for Dean's eyes to hang onto. "These students are already under a lot of stress, but we've got to find a way to ramp it up. Make them so crazy and strung out with it, someone finally bursts."

"You think?" Dean mutters, brain stuck on _strung out_ and _bursting_ , picturing the way those words slid off Sam's tongue and slipped into Dean's bloodstream.

"Oh yeah," Sam answers with smooth confidence. "It's the only way to give this spirit what it really wants, then we can take it out."

Sam's hands track upward between his thighs, where Dean knows the air is humid and Sam's scent would be heady. Dean's mouth starts to water, Sam pulling different reactions from him like a magician performing at his peak.

"So," Dean says, "you're saying we need to break a bunch of high school kids?"

Sam smirks, the fissure in Dean's voice probably obvious.

"I'm saying, it's a plan. Friday's the next class, and I'll get them so riled up, they won't be able to control their reactions. Someone's bound to snap, and I bet that will draw out Steven's spirit."

"The spirit, right," Dean notes. "It sounds good, but how are you going to get them all worked up?"

He regrets asking as soon as Sam's eyes flick down the length of Dean's body. Sam's fingers fold together in a steeple right over his groin, voice swinging back to total innocence.

"I'll figure something out," says Sam. "They won't stand a chance."

So maybe Dean's only known Sam Wesson for a few months, but Dean's familiar with a bad feeling when he gets one. Not from the job, but from the seductive hint in Sam's otherwise chaste expression.

Dean stunts his arousal with business—the work ahead of them. The hunt. Isn't Sam supposed to be the one taking all of this so seriously?

"Guess we should get ready for Friday, then." Dean backs away from the desk. "How about dinner, first?"

"No crazy diets?" Sam mocks, pulled in Dean's direction.

"Shut up, man. I could really use a beer."

The place Dean chooses is loud with plenty of flat-screens covering the walls. Too loud for a good conversation. Dean's not sure how much more of Sam's plan he wants to hear tonight.

And Dean has his own plan, one that includes resisting anymore of Sam's little temptations. He's stayed away from Sam—sexually, at least—since their first hunt after Sandover, and after the phone call that changed things between them. Exposed them, actually. Dean doesn't intend to give in to their connection, as Sam calls it, again. A complication neither one of them needs.

At least, that's what Dean keeps telling himself.

@@@

Dean is going to _die_.

His palms are slick, keep losing their grip on his iron poker, and his knees want to cave and drop him to the floor. Cheeks burning, Dean glances over at Sam on the other side of the classroom, and his throat squeezes, smothering his voice.

Yeah, he's going to die, but not from some unbalanced teenage ghost.

Sam's going to pull his trigger and bring Dean's resistance crumbling down.

They're alone in Sam's classroom, desks out of line, books abandoned by students who'd scattered at the first sign of trouble. Not Sam and Dean, though. Left to catch their breath, staring at one another and smiling.

Sam had done exactly what he set out to do, slipping into a strict lecture as soon as the SAT prep class had started. Dean stood mesmerized while Sam paced at the head of the room, his expression stern and his words meant to provoke a reaction.

Just, probably not the type of reaction Dean could feel in his pants.

Something in the way Sam held himself, the authority in his voice. And the way he'd dressed hadn't dissuaded Dean either. The same narrow-cut jeans, a light pink shirt replacing white, and a belt the same warm shade of chocolate as Sam's hair. 

Fucking _delicious_.

Sam isn't just some IT guy Dean hooked up with thanks to crazy, supernatural circumstances. He's intelligent, fierce, and now, so sure of what he wants in life, even if saying it out loud could get him committed.

Dean wants that; he wants to tame it, possess it, and have it for his own. He's always dealt with what's in front of him, and right now that's Sam Wesson, riding the high of a successful hunt and challenging Dean with deep eyes.

"That was insane," Sam gasps, dropping his lighter onto the pile of ash that had once been Steven Ollin's precious textbooks.

"Right?" Dean walks slowly forward.

"We're getting good at this."

"I know," Dean says. "That ghost didn't manhandle you nearly as much as they usually do."

Sam looks grumpy for a moment. "I wasn't manhandled. I knew what to expect."

"So, you expected him to slam you up against the chalkboard and use you as an eraser?"

"Maybe not that," Sam concedes, back to grinning. "I guess we should get out of here, huh?"

Dean groans, thinking of all the students who'd fled when their ghost flickered into existence. 

"I'm sure one of those kids called their parents, or 9-1-1, or something."

"Yeah," Sam laughs, bending to gather up his stuff. "And like I said, I don't want to bail you out of jail."

@@@

Dean is ripe for it as soon as they get back to the room, dangling at the end of his rope. Sam must know—he'd practically taken an ad out for it—but he winds Dean up even more.

"Felt good, didn't it?" Sam asks rhetorically. "I can't wait to do that again."

Dean follows Sam around the second bed, stashing their supplies.

"Which part? Ganking the ghost or playing teacher?"

"Both," Sam tells him, turning and stepping between Dean and the hotel mattress. His tone drops to a whisper, like he might be overheard. "I know which part was _your_ favorite."

Sam won't give Dean an inch of air, close and intimate the way Dean's only fantasized about since the one and only time they'd fucked. Then, it was circumstance. Now, Sam's hitting Dean with deliberate strokes, heating him up until he boils over.

"I don't need to be a good hunter to catch you, Dean," Sam says, stoking the fire. "The way you were watching me back there, and I know exactly what you were thinking."

Sam's intensity surrounds him; Dean leans forward against the friction.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam holds Dean's gaze for a moment, unstoppable force meeting immovable object. One of them has got to give.

Dean expects Sam to be unrelenting, but Sam's shoulders drop and he slips away. Casual, like waving a white flag to let Dean hang on to his sanity, except for the swagger in Sam's steps and the sin in his eyes.

Sam could play this game all night, but Dean's had enough.

He doesn't let Sam get far, cornering him against the dresser. Sam's hands fall back to grip the wooden edge. There's surprise in his open mouth but Dean knows better than to trust it.

"I bet you don't know what I was really thinking," Dean tells Sam, up close and personal. So close he can see Sam's pupils dilate with base delight. Dean takes a deep breath, surprised the words were pulled out of him and relieved that Sam is finally staying quiet.

Sam Wesson has a voice that could spin straw into pornography and an alter ego—Sam Colt—capable of liquefying Dean's upstairs brain with vulgar fantasies.

Given a chance to think without the spun sex falling from Sam's lips, Dean can act on his own wants. And what he wants is to take Sam Wesson apart piece by piece. Strip him down and find whatever it is that makes him so impulsive. So fearless.

"Are you gonna tell me?" Sam speaks up, mouth drawing Dean's focus. " _Share_ with the class?"

Sam's hips push provocatively into Dean's, and Dean chokes back a moan. He knows what he's dealing with; knows he's not exactly powerless against Sam's mouth. Dean's thought about moments like this--a breath away from carnality--enough to have a stockpile of filth for Sam's ears.

"You'd like that, huh?" Dean considers aloud, letting his libido do the talking. "Hearing everything I thought about while I was watching you. But you really just want to see if it's the same as what _you_ were thinking in that classroom, sprawled against your desk." He raises up on the balls of his feet to whisper, "Yeah, I saw that, too."

Dean can almost feel Sam's lips curl, a snarl in his throat.

"Want me to tell you?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean tells him, dragging his lips over Sam's jaw, teeth catching for a warning bite. "Because I'm gonna show you."

Sam ducks his head down; Dean's glad Sam can't see his cheeks flash hot, unused to expressing himself so openly, face to face. Dean holds back a little longer, knowing that when they cross the line this time, there's no writing it off again.

"Are you waiting for something?" Sam lines up their gazes, back to full confidence. "Should I get you back in that classroom or are you gonna get naughty with the teacher right here?"

Sam can't talk if they're kissing, so Dean pounces in self-preservation, and their lips crash together. Sam's ass slams hard into the dresser behind him, releasing a short gasp into Dean's mouth. No more blood-quickening words, but kissing Sam is just as addictive: the forceful sweep of tongues together with rough, insistent hands, denied for too long.

Dean feels the dryness of chalk on his hands when he wraps Sam up, the smell of the fine dust reaching his nostrils. Scent memory drags him right back into that classroom, in front of Sam at the desk. Preppy outfit driving Dean out of his senses—perfectly put together until you got to the naked lust in Sam's hazel eyes. 

Picturing them there, Dean throws himself further into the kiss, keeping Sam pinned with his weight. The cut of Sam's jaw is irresistible; Dean's mouth detours low again, sinking teeth into the smooth, shaven skin, spicy with aftershave pilfered from Dean's travel kit.

"You're a biter," Sam says with freed lips. "I like it."

"I'm just full of surprises."

Dean says it automatically, knowing he's really not. His life, up until the timely interruption of certain supernatural events, had been sequential and drab. Dean Smith never surprised anyone unless it was with his ability to squeeze a few more dollars out of a project, or stay late because being in the office with the janitorial staff was easier than being in an empty apartment.

"You are," Sam's telling him, easing their bodies away from the hard corners of the dresser to softer landscapes. "And _fuck_ , there are so many things I want to do to your mouth, you have no idea."

Before they can drop, Dean's fingers release the buttons on his own shirt from their holes. Cotton fabric parted down to his belt, Dean leaves plenty of skin to whet Sam's appetite.

Sam pouts, utterly ridiculous on his chiseled face, yet somehow fitting with his personality.

"Now you're just ruining my fun."

"Get naked, Sammy," Dean orders, "or I'm stopping this right here."

No taunt or tease follows; Sam understands that Dean means business. They're half naked before falling to the bed and rolling on the mattress, Sam lying crooked over Dean's torso.

"I thought I told you not to call me Sammy," Sam says, their lips parted only by inches.

"And I listened until I figured out that it turned you on," Dean counters.

"It does not," Sam says, but Dean hears less conviction than there ought to be. Dean: 1, Sam: 0.

Things between them are different compared to the first time Dean and Sam limped deliriously into bed together, wires crossed and impulses in control. This time, they've played their way back into this position. Not the position where Sam's on top of Dean, teasingly rubbing their groins together—although it's a _great_ position to be in, Dean has to admit. They are back to being in tune with one another; one man thinking and the other doing.

Dean imagines that they're fulfilling a promise that manifested the first time they locked eyes in an elevator, finally getting to the good stuff implied in their crazy connection.

Swelling in his pants, Dean can't stand the tease any longer. He bucks Sam and flips him over, getting that palette of tanned skin displayed underneath him. Yeah, _that's the good stuff._

Sam smirks, a look that says he doesn't mind the switch, and throws a little sass Dean's way. 

"You planning on staring all night?"

"I'm trying to figure out if I want you out of these jeans, or not," Dean says, dragging his hand up the tight seam along Sam's inner thigh. "You look so fucking good in them, I might have to leave them on."

"There's no fun in that." Sam closes his legs around Dean's hand and shimmies his hips. "Not for me, and definitely not for you."

Dean has to think about it. He already knows Sam's legs are gorgeously long and toned, thickly muscled calves he wants to sink his teeth into. But in the narrowly cut jeans, Sam's lower body becomes an obscenity. A curse the way the denim cups his cock, leaving every detail for Dean to devour.

"I don't know," Dean tells Sam, dropping his mouth to the significant bulge behind Sam's zipper. "I _really_ like to look."

Sam's got nothing to say after that, and Dean looks his fill. Looking leads to touching, upping the ante every time Dean's fingers circle Sam's bare ankles or press behind his knees. Touching leads to more kissing, occupying Sam's mouth for the foreseeable future even if it means Sam's sex-on-a-stick voice is silenced for the time being.

The touching and the kissing mix and simmer until Dean has no choice but to unzip Sam's jeans and expose him little by little. A tempting triangle of flesh revealed—Dean licks his lips.

"Come on, Dean," Sam whispers right into Dean's ear. "You want it."

"That's what you think?"

"I know."

It's probably safe for Sam to assume, considering Dean's mouth is practically watering at the sight of Sam's dick filling out, gently curved where it lays on his thigh. Dean drops forward in a heartbeat to smother it with his mouth, his smirk going unnoticed when Sam shudders and swears.

Sam's jeans are too restrictive and he kicks them off; Dean follows suit, left in only his underwear whereas Sam's fully naked.

"You went commando?" Dean asks, disbelieving. His dick doesn't need Sam's answer, hung up on the fact that Sam's been bare under his jeans all night. "You're insane."

"I thought you might be a little more eager back in the classroom."

Dean's plenty eager now with the heady taste of Sam in his mouth. He doesn't remember the _taste_ from before, too busy just having Sam to appreciate the sexy details. Like the flavor, or the way Sam's hair is trimmed close to the skin of his groin making his cock look bigger than Dean remembers.

Sam is so loose under his grip, bending whichever way Dean wants him to, but his confidence and humor never fade while Dean applies himself so thoroughly to his blowjob.

"This is the guy I wanted," Sam says, breaking off with a long moan. "Not some schmuck in a three-piece suit."

Unwrapping his jaw from Sam's hip, Dean looks up with a teasing smile. "You don't like my suits?"

"I'd like to fuck you in one," Sam responds even as he's wrapping his fingers in Dean's hair and pulling him back toward his cock. "And then I'd like to rip it off you and burn it."

Dean sucks a bite mark into Sam's thigh as punishment for the insult to his wardrobe. He takes his style very seriously.

"I knew you'd be crazy," Sam moans as Dean bends back over his dick. "Just had to warm you up right."

Dean's definitely warm, sucking and grinding his hips into the mattress at the same time. He doesn't want to lose it before Sam does, and he swirls his tongue around the wide head of Sam's cock, plunging deeper than before. His throat constricts and he breathes through the tightness, spurred by Sam's heavy gasps, letting Sam roll his hips right up into Dean's mouth.

He knows Sam's close when the moans turn broken, shattering long before they reach Dean's ears.

With one hand spread wide for balance on Sam's hip, Dean strokes him with the other, keeping his lips close to the head of Sam's cock so he can feel every little whisper.

"I know you're close, Sammy," Dean breathes out, ignoring the way his own dick is throbbing. It bumps Sam's leg, and Sam stretches his thigh out so that Dean's riding against him. He wants to stop the way his hips instinctually respond to the heavy grind—wants to come when he's fucking Sam later—but he can't.

"Dean—"

"Sammy—" he whispers again, turning the name into a directive, and Sam comes with his hips pulsing half a dozen times.

Dean's eyes shoot up, watching the pleasure spread across Sam's face. His cheeks flush and his lips go slack, bitten red. Sam is more gorgeous in that second than Dean's ever seen him, even in the classroom, but he tramples the romantic thought and delights in the fact that Sam's coming so hard for him.

He enjoys Sam's rapture for a minute before Sam manhandles Dean closer, yanking at his shoulders until they're face to face. Sam's sweaty palm goes right for Dean's cock, wrapping around it in one long, sinuous stroke.

"Sammy, wait—" he tries to say, but Sam kisses him fiercely, growling at the barest hint of his nickname. That weapon's going to come in handy for a long time, Dean knows.

"That got you so hot, didn't it?" Sam asks, his tone clearly not expecting an answer. "I make you so hot."

Sam jacks him off so quickly, Dean has no chance to defend himself—not that Sam's wrong, anyway—or pull away. His dick is sealed tightly in Sam's grip, a five-fingered heat bringing him so goddamn close to the edge. Sam is intent on making Dean fly apart, nipping at Dean's lips between kisses.

"I told you how much I wanted your mouth," Sam adds, and it's the last thing Dean hears before he's smothered in white noise, coming all over Sam's hand.

When the din fades, Dean's looking down at Sam and panting. His arms tremor and Sam rubs his skin from elbow to shoulder with steady hands, watching Dean fondly. Dean covers his own adoring reaction by lowering his lips for another kiss, this one far less heated than the last. Sam goes with it, saying nothing, gathering Dean close with his long arms.

Their stomachs rub together, and Dean grimaces at the mess they've made. Sam doesn't appear bothered, stretching languidly and chuckling when Dean winces at the sensation of his spent dick bumping across Sam's abs.

"I was saving that," Dean mutters.

Sam laughs brightly. "For what? I'm pretty confident you can go another round."

Dean eyes Sam; he really hadn't considered that. He concedes the point and rolls off of Sam's body, pleased when Sam follows and turns on his side to face him. Sam's hands wander curiously, avoiding the mixed come on the sheets and Dean's belly. Lightly tickling, Sam watches Dean with soft eyes, a change in his attitude Dean doesn't want to think too hard on in the moment.

"I hope you're not done with me yet," Sam says, cheeky smirk back in place. "I thought you had so much potential."

"Hell no," Dean tells him, swatting him lightly on the ass and bending close to whisper his words right into Sam's ear. "Get on your knees, _teacher_."

@@@

They wake up mashed together, mismatched puzzle pieces forced into place. Dean feels too warm, his calf stuck under one of Sam's feet, and his nose is stuffy from the dry, hotel air.

He feels the twinge of over-exertion in his hips, smiling to himself because last night was absolutely worth the slight pain he knows he's going to feel when he gets up. Sam will have more to complain about, Dean thinks smugly. Dean had certainly given his ass a workout.

Sam snuffs next to him, the puff of air hitting Dean's cheek. Carefully, Dean untangles their limbs and walks quietly into the bathroom, emptying his bladder with a long sigh.

After a perfunctory shower, Dean stares at himself in the mirror. No doubt Sam's awake, waiting on the other side of the bathroom door, but Dean can't find the awkwardness he was sure he'd feel.

Sam Wesson is a weird guy, his enthusiasm for the unnatural side of life and all things considered. And hunting is _definitely_ weird, so there's no reason for this thing between Dean and Sam to feel as normal as it does.

Dean shakes himself. He's perfectly willing to go back into the room, tease Sam a little about last night, and grab breakfast before they make a mad dash out of town. That might seem normal to the average person, but not for two guys who'd attempted to break into a school, impersonated teachers, and ganked the angry ghost of a teenager the night before.

And Dean's starting to accept that when he's around Sam Wesson, he's going to have to redefine his idea of normal. Dean waits for the apprehension to grab him—he's never had to change for anyone—but nothing happens. He only hears the click and whine of the room's heater as it comes to life.

Dean had been waiting for a sign; maybe he'd missed it. There might not be a grand revelation telling Dean that he's on the right path, no matter how freaky it's turned out to be. Maybe he only needed Sam, for real this time, to get over his hang-ups.

Sam's up and rubbing his face when Dean walks out of the bathroom. He yawns, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. 

"We should probably get out of town."

"Don't forget about breakfast."

"I wasn't going to," Sam says, sleepy eyes on Dean. He doesn't startle when Dean steps up to him, fully-dressed, and gives him a shallow kiss. No question in Sam's eyes that Dean can make out, not even surprise. There's simply acceptance, and expectation that it's not the last kiss he's ever going to get from Dean. 

"Too bad you've already showered," Sam adds, combing his hands through Dean's wet, unstyled hair.

Dean grins. "Yeah, too bad." He swats at Sam's hands. "Now get your ass out of bed."

Sam slaps Dean's ass on his way into the bathroom, quickly escaping when Dean tries to retaliate. His laughter rings out from the other side of the door, and Dean vows payback.

Yeah, now that sounds like a plan.

FIN


End file.
